The first time I watched the Sound of Music, I was seven and genuinely perplexed as to why such a smashing young nun would fetch up with an octogenarian with a whistle fetish.

As I grew older, I realised why. He had a bloody great big house.

Last night, having been strong-armed to watch the Sing-a-Long version of The Sound of Music at the theatre with my daughter, I found the tables had turned. I was actually LUSTING after Captain Georg Von Trapp and his long, hard whistle. My hills were alive. I wanted him to ford my stream, climb my mountain and add certain of my body parts to his list of favourite things.

I'll blow your whistle, Captain, oh yeah. I'll blow it real nice

Even though – and perhaps because – his name is pronounced Gay-Org (gay.org for those readers under the age of 25) I had suddenly discovered Captain Von Trapp’s allure. Definitive proof that the portrait ageing on my behalf in the attic affects only my body and not my mind – I may look like a 22-year-old glamour model, but inside I have the mind of a wizened 37-year-old. It’s like that Benjamin Button film in reverse. I think – I haven’t seen it.

While innocently looking for red hot pictures from the Von Trapp’s honeymoon online, I happened upon the BBC’s plans to maintain public morale in the event of a nuclear disaster which involve none other than Gay-Org himself. Academic Dr Ian Bradley revealed the in-bunker entertainment for the dignitaries, celebrities and brown-nosers stashed underground while the rest of us are burning to death in the streets: “Shortly after the siren sounds, we can expect to see and hear Julie Andrews,” he said. Along with the three other riders of the Apocalpyse, presumably.

On the plus side, commoners like you and I (this is a vast generalisation, apologies to dignitaries, celebrities and brown nosers reading) will not have a place in one of the 20 bunkers around the UK that will be screening The Sound of Music on a continual loop for 100 days. On the minus side, that’s because we’ll probably be dead.

For those of us left above ground, the most sensible thing to do will be to reach for the Government’s Preparing for Emergencies booklet, which advises us not to panic. Not panicking is especially easy if you have been reduced to dust by an atomic firestorm.

If you’ve made it through the initial blast, and are simply waiting to vomit up your liver when gamma rays permeate through the double glazing, you can always summon up a little of the BBC’s plan to inject the feelgood factor back into your life by singing the songs from The Sound of Music yourself.

I can see it now, the family huddled around grandma, who is still burning brightly, and trying to remember the lyrics to Favourite Things:

“Toxic rain on babies and weeping sores on kittens, bright orange fireballs and radiation-proof mittens, deformities caused by rogue DNA strings…these are a few pesky nuclear war things.

“Incinerated ponies and crisp quick-fried poodles, sirens and screaming and living off Pot Noodles, wild geese that fly with scorch-marks on their wings…these are a few pesky nuclear war things.

“When the bomb hits, when black rain falls, when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember Gordon Brown’s underground, and then I don’t feel so bad…”

Really, though, check out the Von Trapp fox, ladies. All aboard the time machine, I’m heading for the hills.

I am sure I am not alone in marvelling at the many and varied ways people chance upon the posts you have committed to the world wide web.

I say ‘marvelling’, I mean ‘despairing’. There are lots of perverts and voyeurs out there, my friends, and most of them are dropping in to see me in the hope of some hot vibrator/breasts/knickers/dwarves/vegetable action. I am glad not to let these valued viewers down.

Apologies should, however, be extended to all those who arrive in my corner of cyberspace hoping for recipes on the basis that I mentioned cooking, once, about six weeks ago. On this note, I must advise that under no circumstances should you try and use a carrot vibrator in your slow cooker recipes. They are surprisingly tough, even after marination.

For your delectation, these are a selection of the people you are sharing these pages with. Possibly right now. And you’re the only one with both hands on the keyboard.

1) Black women without knickers

2) Women with black knickers

3) Dwarves with big breasts

4) Flooded black knickers dwarves

5) Vegetable vibrator sexy

6) Vibrator that talks back 2 u

7) How to find g spot women orgasm

8) Madonna nip slip hot picture

9) Map of g spot

10) Carrot sex video

I do wish Mum would stop hassling about the carrot sex video. A promise is a promise, and she should know I always follow through (wait until the harvest, Mama! Then the carrots will come, oh yes, they will come).

Do you have any disturbing search engine terms to share? I have no prize, other than my eternal and life-prolonging love.

The hangover from Scarlet Fever lurks in the household like a persistent stalker outside the bathroom window.

Headaches abound, and everyone is clamouring for drugs. Everyone apart from me, of course, because I am harder than a diamond and actively enjoy suffering because it reminds me how awesomely brave and stoic I am, like Joan of Arc, but with better hair.

At times like these, I thank all that is holy for Barbie heroin, mother’s little helper, also known as junior paracetamol.

"Mummy says this will have to do until Mr Big scores some of the pink stuff."

Ah, the crimson-hued bringer of peace, the glittering syrup of silence, the strawberry-flavoured elixir that makes hurty tum-tums go bye-byes at bedtime.

It came as somewhat of a blow, therefore, to read a report from the Food Commission revealing that a huge number of junior medicines are jam-packed with a cocktail of synthetic dyes, preservatives and sweeteners, all of which are banned in food and drink made for young children.

Apparently, junior paracetamol isn’t extracted from organic pomegranates, the glitter isn’t fairy dust and when we give them a painkiller, we might as well be injecting them in the eyeballs with amphetamines or passing them a crack pipe (as if! That crack is all mine).

A conspiracy of silence surrounds the administering of infant paracetamol. Parents who would rather gnaw off their own arm than give their children sweets will cheerfully funnel neon pink numbing sparkle juice into their offspring at the merest hint of an injury or an ache.

For all those parents confused about the difference between additive-riddled sweets and additive-riddled junior medicines, I have compiled an at-a-glance guide.

Sweets are:
(a) The devil’s own work and single-handedly responsible for the rise in childhood obesity, diabetes, tooth decay, gun crime and global warming.
(b) Bad because they make Tilly hyperactive if she so much as SNIFFS a Starburst.
(c) Ultimately pointless because in time, Tarquin and Jemima will actually prefer dried kumquats and candied beetroot to a packet of Haribo or a bag of space dust.

Junior medicines, on the other hand, are:
(a) A bloody Godsend. Put your thumb over the ingredients label and pour a spoonful would you? EastEnders is on in 10 minutes and I can’t hear the telly through the screaming.

News that foreign holiday sales have slumped in the recession and that people are opting to stay local for their annual summer break reminds me of a holiday I spent under the stars with two heroin addicts going through cold turkey. Ah, those where the days when I knew how to have fun.

These days, the fact that I agreed to go camping at all seems as mind-bogglingly deranged as the fact that I agreed to go camping with two heroin addicts.

While I still can’t remember why the trip ever seemed like a good idea, I think my boyfriend sold it to me on the basis that we’d never actually seen the addicts move, therefore the likelihood of the whole venture actually happening was somewhere between ‘no chance’ and ‘only if hell freezes over’.

"The heroin's nearly cooked, love, do you want yours with beans?"

He was wrong. What we didn’t know was that our friends were planning to use the holiday as a convenient time to quit heroin – all that fresh air, a break from routine, a seven-mile walk across scrubland to the nearest hamlet; the conditions were perfect.

As soon as I was informed of their plan (after I’d pitched my tent), I was struck by the irony. As far as I’m concerned, the grim, joyless pain of camping is one of the only things on the planet that could persuade me to try heroin in the first place.

What my friends had forgotten was one vital fact: heroin users are unbelievably resourceful, especially when it comes to finding heroin.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed watching Trainspotting. I didn’t appreciate living it quite so much, especially as all that separated me from two furious, frothing lunatics was a thin sheet of canvas and a family-size pack of toilet paper. Within hours, there was weeping, gnashing, cursing, begging and threatening. I’m not proud of the way I dealt with the situation.

I swiftly realised that the one thing that had made my friends bearable in the first place had been the industrial amounts of heroin they pumped into their veins and that without it, they were interminable. By the first night I was practically begging my friends to hitchhike to the nearest town to score some drugs – if not to ease their withdrawal symptoms, then to give to me so I could get a little bit of sleep.

On day two, they did just that. We didn’t see them for hours, and when they returned, they were their old selves – barely coherent and horizontal. The rest of the trip passed in companiable silence, bar the odd reminder not to leave discarded needles outside the tent or to leave lit cigarettes unattended.

There is a happy end to this story – my friends did manage to kick their habit. Ten years after our camping holiday.

Like Bigfoot, the Abominable Snowman or the Loch Ness Monster, scientists are now telling us that the G-Spot doesn’t exist.

This must come as welcome news to anyone for whom searching for the elusive G-Spot has always been, for want of a better phrase, a wild stab in the dark.

Scientists working at the University of Sheffield have revealed there is no evidence to support the existence of the G-Spot which was ‘discovered’ by German gynaecologist Dr Ernst Grafenberg decades ago. My, that must have been a popular degree course.

I always thought a woman’s ‘seat of pleasure’ was a chair positioned in front of The Wire season three, but according to Dr Grafenberg, it’s actually a tiny, nerve-packed area offering a sexual punch second to none.

The search for the G-Spot has been similar to that for the Holy Grail, Noah’s Ark or the key to the shed which was last seen in 1993 near the broken umbrella in the hall; pointless, time-consuming and ultimately fruitless.

Generally, heterosexual men fall into one of three camps – those who pride themselves on being the embodiment of The Joy of Sex, those who read Cosmopolitan once and think this qualifies them to know what women want and those who believe pleasuring a woman involves buying her a new vacuum cleaner.

The first group will not let you leave their room of seduction until your G-Spot has been found and pinpointed on an exact map of your body which they have covered in highlighter pen and plastered with Post-It notes. Damn it, you are going to ENJOY this sex. Right now!

You're not leaving until I find out which one of these is your G-Spot

In fact, this may be how the myth of the G-Spot emerged in the first place.

Bored into a state of almost catatonic compliance, Dr Ernst’s wife suddenly realised that if she pretended he’d hit the internal jackpot then she might be able to go back downstairs and have a nice cup of tea and a piece of shortbread. Little did she realise that she’d condemned the rest of womankind to a lifetime of fruitless excavation with the sexual allure of a smear test.

Group two are by far the most common of the three – during the honeymoon period of your relationship, the bit where you still find the fact they trim their toenails with their teeth alluring, they might make a couple of attempts to get out the compass and ruler to make a cursory search for your ‘seat of pleasure’. Then, showing great common sense, they will give up.

The third category of men would probably gnaw off their left leg before they did anything other than recreate the sex scenes in the BBC’s Walking With Cavemen series. Foreplay for them involves clubbing women over the head and dragging them back to their pile of skins.

Surely for all those smug couples who claim that on the night they discovered the G-Spot a chorus of angels appeared towing a rainbow over the bed, the news that they’ve been getting worked up over an imaginary erogenous zone must come as a bit of a blow.

Personally, I find it hard to get too upset at the G-Spot’s demise, because you can’t miss what you never had, or that no one ever found, or, indeed, bothered to look for with any degree of enthusiasm.

In my experience, the men I have encountered along life’s highways and byways find it difficult enough to find a huge pack of nappies in a supermarket; their chances of finding a minute spot of questionable existence without benefit of large signs, helpful assistants and a tannoy system is negligible at best.

By widening the search to a G-Zone, scientists have offered men a fighting chance of being in the right area. Had they broadened the field to “somewhere below the neck and above the knees” it would have been even better.

So the G-Spot is lost, possibly forever. Although of course, you know what will happen now, you spend forever searching for something and then it just turns up when you’re least expecting it. Probably down the back of the sofa.

* The Woman in Black apologises for her two-day absence. The ‘G-Spot Workshop’ took somewhat longer than she had anticipated.

There I was, all smugly bored about bird flu, looking forward to panicking about something new and exciting, like the credit crunch, and what happens? Six new cases of bird flu have been confirmed in China and suddenly we’re all watching the skies again.

For the past two years, the papers have been filled to the brim with stories about bird flu which, we were told, would single-handedly wipe out half the population, like the Black Death with wings, feathers and really horrible, scaly feet.

Suddenly, birds were our enemies. We used to marvel at the timeless grace of a flock of swans sweeping across the sky but overnight they became the advance guard of the Armageddon.

If you found a dead bird, the only decent thing to do was to shoot yourself in the head to avoid infecting your children, pausing only to set all your clothes and belongings on fire to prevent the virus spreading.

Then, of course, nothing happened, other than the death of one swan in a Scottish village. By Christmas 2007, we’d even put away the staff shotgun which we used during lunch hours and tea breaks to pick off passing birds we didn’t like the look of.

I don’t mean to sound like a cynical old goat, but I have to confess that I was beginning to believe that the whole thing had been blown out of all proportion. I mean, how many times can Britain come to the brink of catastrophic destruction and escape unscathed? This is the UK, not Die Hard 2.

Just when I’d let my defences down, made myself a cup of tea and was preparing to have a nice afternoon panicking about global warming, the news broke that an outbreak of bird flu had been confirmed in the far east (by which I mean the orient, not Norfolk).

If you ask me, we should have been better prepared: birds have been showing signs of insurgence for years.

Seagulls, for example, started acting up in 2004. Thanks to rising obesity levels – particularly amongst those who holiday in our less salubrious coastal resorts – there was no longer a constant supply of fish and chip leftovers for the gulls to polish off. Unwilling to spend days at sea hunting for fish which wouldn’t come in batter or with a side-serving of mushy peas, they headed for the bright lights and burger bars of the cities.

But the greedy gulls didn’t stop at ransacking bins. Soon they started concentrating on the diner, rather than the dinner.

In London, Brighton and Scotland gulls attacked people in the street, swooping at 40mph, their cruel beaks filled with the scent of what cannibals refer to as long pig. In Wales, they even managed to kill a man – we can’t say Hitchcock didn’t warn us.

Peter Rock, Britain’s leading gull expert (as opposed to all those other gull charlatans) has warned the gull population will be “monstrous” by 2014 and that soon we will all be living indoors and hiding in the shadows to avoid becoming the latest victim of a fly-by killing.

I paraphrase only slightly.

“If they swoop, it’s death,” Mr Rock reassured us all, “in order to shoot the lot, you’d need an army”.

I know where you live

There are only five years to go until seagulls outnumber humans and we are all answering to our feathered masters, although to be fair, half of us will have died after contracting bird flu, so it’s not as bad as it could have been.

While I expect all of you have already assembled a well-stocked “bird flu pantry”, crammed with bottled water, tinned tuna and gold bars (for when civil unrest causes the collapse of all banks, as opposed to the recession), it is important that we are all able to recognize the signs of bird flu in humans.

They are, handily, pretty much the same symptoms you’d expect to have for every other common illness.

Look out for a high fever, chest congestion, nausea, fatigue and aching in the joints. And if you suddenly have an irresistible urge to empty your bowels over a freshly-washed windscreen, don’t hesitate: dial 999.

Money can’t buy you love – never has this phrase been so apt than when browsing the Valentine’s Day section at The 99p Shop. There, not only can money not buy you love, it probably can’t even buy you anything more than a withering glare and your marching orders.

I am not a rampant materialist. If money is too tight to mention, be inventive. Cut your loved one’s morning toast into heart shapes. Run them a bath. Give them the Findus Crispy Pancake that hasn’t exploded in the oven. Carve their initials into your flesh with a plastic set square. Just don’t get them one of these:

1) The Friendship Vase. Perhaps you’ve only just snared the object of your affection and don’t want to frighten them off by delivering a bouquet of roses made from your own hair and teeth, maybe you want to give a gift that says: ‘I want to make it clear that I haven’t committed to you yet’ or maybe you just don’t give a damn. Whatever the reason, nothing shows a special friend just how much they mean to you like a 99p vase holding a lurid blue plastic flower, except perhaps a fist in the face.

The vase that says...back off

2) Yellow, purple and pink nylon knickers. Who says you can’t get sexy lingerie for 99p? I do. If you get a woman into these knickers, refrain from all heavy petting if you are within 25ft of a naked flame, are wearing a shell suit or have had a pacemaker fitted.

This is not my arm. I am the woman in black

3) Kiss Here Posing Pouch (pube-free crotch not included): will only work if you administer a shot of Rophypnol 20 minutes before you slip into them, and then it’s still only a 50:50 chance of success. Even the catatonic have standards.

Contents may vary

4) Bonsai garden: the art of bonsai is one that requires hours of study and dedication, an eye for detail and a delicate, deft touch. Alternatively, you could forget all that shit and get yourself a plastic bonsai tree for less than a quid – and who’ll tell the difference, apart from absolutely everybody? Included in the price is a mystic figure, who blows ancient wisdom from his preposterously large anus.

Morph had been comfort eating again

5) Inflatable Boob Pillow: Perfect for the partner who continually puts you down about the size of your breasts, for any fans of BBC3’s Grown Ups/Clone/Coming of Age (who will consider this an ‘intellectual’ gag in comparison) or as a bridging gift when you can’t quite afford to give her the boob job you’ve coerced her into agreeing to.

We're leading separate lives

The worst Valentine’s Day present I ever received was glandular fever. But that’s another story. What’s the least romantic gift you’ve ever been given? The best answer doesn’t get the bonsai garden in the post.